Twisted Fairy Tale

The wizened storyteller took his usual place, at one corner of the busy square. Around him the city's denizens shopped and talked, and many stopped to listen in for a bit. For this man who called himself Faruq, truly had a gift for relating stories. He was grossly obese, but few had ever seen him eat; fewer still knew where he lived. But everyone knew his deep, resonant voice, and his laughter. And how he could bring children to tears with pleasure.

On one night, he was summoned to the Palace. This was truly where he made his money and gained his great stomach. There, at the whim of the Princess, he dined at the head table, mixing his great stories in between his sumptuous dining. The Princess, along with her very large entourage, beckoned him to tell the tale of that faraway Princess, locked in the highest tower in the unfindable castle, and cursed with the most heinous of curses.

Faruq told the tale, imbibing it with just the right amount of allusion and spice. The Princess had the grace to blush one or twice, while her handmaidens roared with gleeful laughter at the salacious tale. It was a rather trite story, how only true love could break the curse and set this far-off Princess free from her bonds of the curse. Oh, the handmaidens - and even the Princess had said - how delightful would it be to find that first kiss of true love.

***

His parents had booted him from their hovel when he was a mere boy. He fell into the city's great underbelly, where his dirty, smelly self managed to find work now and again, and managed to get the food he needed to grow. His father, a captain of the palace guard, was a brutal man, large and immensely powerful with tree trunks for legs and giant hands that were coarse from hard labor. Gavin grew into that same frame, large and stocky, and powerful. He was soon noticed not by the palace guards, who all knew him on sight and knew to avoid him at all costs, lest they incur his father's wrath, but rather from the shady mercenaries who got supplies from time to time in the city.

One of them saw him engage in a hand to hand fight over food. Gavin was the victor, and the mercenary captain who observed the proceedings saw the natural grace of the young man, and wanted to harness that hate. And so he did, and Gavin engaged in adventures for nearly ten years. He carried with him two deep, ugly scars, one on his upper arm where it had nearly been chopped off by an axe, and the other on his abdomen, where an arrow had pierced his armor and penetrated him. He had very nearly died after both injuries, and was now a tad slower than he had been, but was as thick, powerful and brutish as his father - at least in battle.

In camp, he had always been a loner. Men followed him not because of his words, but because of his bravery. He cared for his men, and did not scream or berate or punish, but worked to improve. Gavin recognized that his health and life were often due to the abilities of his men, so he led them, and led them well.

It was with a great deal of remorse that the same mercenary captain who'd spotted him on the streets so long ago now shook his hand as an equal, and wished him good fortune. Gavin was tired of fighting, tired of the life, tired of violence for pay. So he mounted his war horse, a trusty steed who like him was getting on in the years. Horse and rider trotted slowly into the west, into the setting sun. Neither man nor animal knew where they might stop. The captain watched him until he was gone, and then issued a small sigh, and a small head shake.

***

Somewhere far to Gavin's west, a most beautiful woman sat glaring at the setting sun, as if her scowl and fury could stop it. Nothing, she knew, could stop it. And the moment that the last direct rays of sunlight hit her tower, the change happened.

If she could go back in time! Oh, she would not have said such cruel, unkind words to the old woman and her skinny, bumbling child. She would have been that kind young woman her mother had always told her to be. But no, of course not, she mused. She had been the Princess, through and through, haughty and demeaning. The old woman and young girl had been sent sprawling, for this Princess was a sturdy woman.

It seemed that overnight on her eighteenth birthday that every dress she owned had suddenly become too short, far too tight at the waist and even tighter at her chest. In the days following, she would lie in her bed at night, her hands cradling these new growths upon her chest. She knew what they were and what they were for - to give suckle to babes - but she was astonished at their growth rate, and how heavy they were. The tiny strands of hair that grew sparsely between her legs seemed to erupt into a thick mat of coarse hair. The first night she lay awake, stiff on her bed, wishing the pulsing heat between her legs would just go away, she reached down to try and rub it away, like a bad itch. She had gasped then, both from the wetness that clung to her fingers and the intense sensation that came with it.

How often she explored her own body from that night forward! The way a gentle caress brought a deep pleasure, and how fast, hard movements on that one little spot led to the ultimate in pleasures. She touched and touched, learning about herself. Yet it was deeply shameful, or so her Mother constantly said, and she only did it on those nights when sleep would not come because of the same pulsing heat.

Her monthly was a rude shock, worse yet was the pain and rage that came with them. It was in the midst of one of those painful days where she had struck out so viciously at the woman. She ought to have stayed home, but listening to her Mother, the Queen herself, was equally out of the question.

The woman was a witch of sorts, and laid upon her a curse so vile that she was forced to flee the kingdom. She became an unperson overnight, once the curse's effects became known. She was seen as a freak, a demon, and driven out from her homeland. She wandered aimlessly, before finally arriving at the castle that sat atop the land's highest hills. Despite its position, the castle seemed shrouded in darkness, and she let herself in. The door slammed shut behind her, and she could not open it, nor any other window. The castle became her prison, and there she sat for a hundred years.

She did not need food nor water. She was left alone to find remorse for her actions, but it was at night that the vileness of the curse was truly revealed. How might she escape? For decades, she wondered and hoped, and then every so often a sterling knight would come calling. How had her story become known? Did they know about the curse?

Each time, the doors slammed shut on the knight, and he was not able to rescue her. Instead, he was forced to see the effects of her curse. Every one of those knights had taken their own life, or she had slain them in her own fury at their refusals to help her. She was a monster, and the decades of this isolation molded her mind into something deeply poisonous. Yet hope was retained, and it was this thin thread of hope that kept her from going completely, utterly insane.

***

Gavin's ride led him through village to glen, city to plain. Conversant enough in the local tongues, he was able to conduct trade to gain the food and water for himself and his horse, and the occasional item to assist him. His size and permanent scowl cowed most people, and once in a city, three ruffians thought he was an easy mark. Only one survived, though missing a limb. His savagery preceded him into these small towns where rumors flew faster than the eagles above.

He said few words and engaged in conversation. Always he was driven forward, never to look back, never to contemplate. Contemplation meant he was forced to consider his own wayward mind, and that could not - must not - happen. Now or ever.

So steadily he rode westward. He came to that forest, and there felt a compulsion to move forward. Must move forward. Something, he felt, was calling to him. A fellow rider had joined him. They spoke seldom, but neither was eager to ditch the other and ride alone. So they broke camp and exchanged their sparse words while cooking their day's kill over a fire. That night, Gavin suffered through dreams. He awoke early and in the blackest of moods, and barely said anything to his companion.

That compulsion was driving him forward, and his companion too. They rode, not hard, for the woods were deep and ancient and footing was treacherous, but steadily. Then, finally, to the end of the forest, to that great castle. A tower sat high above, overlooking the lands. His companion unsheathed his sword.

"I will go first," he declared, "for this is my destiny."

Normally loathe to allow another to lead him, he was about to object when some hidden sense warned him off. He had never had many "gut instinct" moments before in his life, but each time that he had, he had heeded such thoughts. Each time that he had, he had lived whereas he might have died. So he patted his sword, and wordlessly opened his arms, gesturing to his companion to ride on. So he watched as his companion rode to the castle, and flung the great doors open. The crash of their closure reached his ears. Then, nothing for the longest time, until the sun finally dipped below the horizon. The silence was deafening, and he found himself staring at the castle, awaiting his companion's return. It never happened.

For the first night in as many as he could remember back, his sleep was deep and unbroken by dreams. Neither the women he'd slain or the children, or the men who's heads he'd taken, appeared to haunt him. It was a peaceful night, and he woke knowing that something was deeply amiss. Was this to be his final day on this planet?

His companion, though neither as broad in shoulder nor powerful in muscle, had been a skilled fighter. Gavin had witnessed that first-hand. So whatever lay in wait in that castle was a most lethal foe. Whatever had bested his companion was certainly a worthy opponent, he finally decided. He chose not to wear the heavy, loud armor that he had donned so many times before battle. Something told him that he would not need it, that speed would be more necessary than raw strength, cunning more important than directness. So it was only with a boot blade and his trusty blade in his usual place upon his hip that he wore while walking up to the castle. His horse was untethered, and free to go, though she remained loyal and merely stood, grazing idly while waiting for his return. He hoped that his horse would not have to wait forever.

The door, heavy as iron, swung easily once pushed. It opened into the large ballroom of the castle. Now this looked familiar in a way, like his own castle back home. He stepped inside, and did not jump when the door crashed shut with an echoing boom. Rather than stalk inside, he stood and took stock of the place. For a far-off castle, he thought, it should have been in an advanced state of ruin. But it looked perfect, its walls solid and dry, and the foundation as sturdy as upon the day it opened.

He walked inside, into a huge dining room. It was set for supper, at least twenty plates. But there were no aromas of cooking food, nor no clanking of pots and pans, nor the chatter of the servant class. It was silent, forever silent.

At the other end of this great hall was an equally great, forbidding double staircase. It rose, then split to go to either side. He walked towards it, and saw that the stone was a milky white, with dark lines running through it. A distant voice in the back of his head said "marble," though it was a stone he'd not seen since childhood forays into the castle of the kingdom of his youth. He went up it anyway, and once reaching the top, stopped and looked around.

The silence remained eerie; the hairs on the back of his neck were all up. His hand dropped automatically to his sword, grasping the hilt. On second thought, he drew it, holding it low. He felt more than heard that someone was approaching, and he took a step back.

She attacked without preamble, her blade slicing fast and hard. Only his mental preparedness had kept him from taking a grievous wound. Instead, he found himself parrying the blade, as now the sound of metal screeching upon metal echoed around the otherwise empty building. His opponent, he saw, was a woman, and no woman had never looked like her. In the span of about two seconds, he knew that he'd never be able to forget her, such was her raw beauty and womanly body.

But he had no time to further ponder her allure, for she pressed the attack. Her sword style was not to his liking, but he began to see the rhythm in her attack. Once seeing that, he was better able to defend, and then he found himself not just her equal, but her better. He hated swordplay on the field of battle, because it was all too easy to take a mace to one's head, or an arrow in one's body. But as the place was empty save the two of them, he consciously thought to enjoy it.

Soon both combatants were breathing hard, and sweating profusely. She was skilled, strong and relentless, but in the end he was more skilled, stronger and her match for relentlessness. Her grip weakened just slightly, and his final blow accompanied by his bellowing war cry sent the sword flying end over end through the air, where it came to a noisy, clattering rest somewhere below.

The point of his sword was at her heaving chest. He marveled at the size and girth of her chest, but only for a moment.

"Go ahead and kill me!" she spoke her first words. He had never heard such flat dread from a person before, let alone a woman of her striking appearance. "Just get it over with fast, that's all I ask."

He stepped back, though keeping his sword at the ready. "And why do you want to die, madam?" he asked.

She laughed roughly. Then sighed heavily. "You're not gonna kill me?"

He shook his head. She did the same, except when she did, tears fell from her eyes. She reclined a little, her hands behind her to support her, and bent then spread her legs. "Fine. Wanna fuck then?" she asked crudely. She balanced on one hand, and with the other yanked her skirts up to reveal her bare body beneath. He saw the hair and the organ hiding under it. His breath caught in his throat.

"Why would you offer yourself?" he growled coarsely. "Are you a mere whore?"

"If only I were, I might not be here," she said. She seemed satisfied that he was not going to take her body, and let her dress shift once more to cover herself.

"Why are you here?"

"I am cursed, with a curse so foul that no man has been able to withstand what he sees of me once the nighttime comes."

He stared blankly at her. "What could be so hideous to turn a woman like you into something that repels men?"

"I suppose you'll have no choice but to find out. Here, help me up," she said, thrusting her hand out in front of her. "I've not been bested in several years," she added as he found himself reaching down and holding her, and pulling her upright. She was heavy, a formidable woman, he decided.

"Yesterday?"

"A fool, charging in without thought or plan. Though he was skilled," she added. "But lacked endurance."

"He is slain, then?"

"Yes. A friend?"

"Merely a companion, a riding companion. We seemed to have been drawn here."

"That is what I am told often, a compulsion that cannot be ignored," she agreed. She walked past him and he followed. Irked by own curiosity, he warned himself not to follow, yet could not exactly stop himself, either. "Perhaps it is what is between my legs that draws men so compulsively." This was hurled over her shoulder in a tone conveying utter contempt.

They walked up several flights of stairs, to the woman's bedroom. Once again, the door slammed shut behind him.

"You are trapped here, with me," she said. "The only exit is there," she said pointing at the end of the outstretched arm. "The fall has taken many." He walked over and peered out, and saw the skeletal remains below.

"What are you, a monster?" he asked, his hand back on his sword.

"You won't be needing that, I'm sure. While I am a monster, as has been told to me many times, I won't be able to outfight you, knight."

"Knight?" he scoffed. "I have never been accused of that before."

"But your fighting skills."

"A mercenary. A man for hire. But a skilled one, though a very tired one. Tired of war. Of seeing the worst of people."

"Seeing that in yourself?" she said.

He nodded at her shrewd question. "My dreams, I see them, those who fell to my sword." He paused, and then looked at her. "Save for last night. Last night was dreamless."

She scoffed once more. "A purging of your soul, preparing for death, then?"

"I know not." He saw a big seat and sat down heavily in it. "Perhaps," he allowed a moment later.

She sat heavily on her bed. "Maybe you'll be different."

He shrugged. "Can you not tell me of your curse?"

She cast a cold look his way. "I could try. But the moment that I try, my words come apart. What happens is that sun moon yesterday the grift Princess box."

He blinked. "You tried to say?"

Mutely, she bobbed her head up and down.

"Can you speak now?"

This time, a side to side motion. She held up five fingers, and folded one in after the other slowly. So he waited, as her mouth worked while no words came out. Finally, she regained her speech. "Ah, there we go."

"That's quite the curse. Who did you smite?"

"Smite? No one. I shoved an old woman and her daughter to the ground." She sighed, a sudden harsh exhale. "I was - am, technically - a Princess. The land does not matter. But I was a Princess, in line to be Queen. I was haughty, arrogant. Above it all. I was in the midst of my monthlies and in a lot of pain, and this old woman and her daughter were in my way, and I was suddenly furious. I lashed out, hurting them both. I suppose that she must have been a witch, laying this curse upon me."

"A Princess? But of course, the rumors," he said, after brief thought.

"You see? And a curse, the most effective curse that she could bring to bear. I tell you, you'll be taking that window."

"Or?"

"Or? Or what? I don't know, it's never happened before. Every man who would be my shining savior, who has bested me in combat, has taken the window. I hope your soul is clean, though a mercenary probably not."

"Hell awaits me," he said with certainty. "But I am in no hurry to visit there."

"So say you now, mercenary."

"My name is Gavin."

"You are nothing yet."

"You are unpleasant," he said. He settled into the chair, his arms crossed over his large chest, and turned his head to stare out of the window. Daylight was beginning to turn to night. He found his heart beating slightly faster with that realization. Was he living through his final hours? What would befall him, upon seeing her?

In silence they sat, him avoiding her eyes, she staring coldly at him. She stood suddenly. "The curse nears, I can feel it. And I am now compelled to do this," she said, as her hands reached up to touch her shoulders. The dress she slid from her body, once passing over her chest, falling shapelessly to the ground. She turned to face him, those great breasts, her breath-taking beauty, the thatch of hair and the siren call of men around the world nestled between her legs.

It was with some measure of relief that he felt his own manhood stir. Aside from the random whore who's time he had purchased on those days where he felt his head might explode, his manhood rarely bothered with coming to life. Some early mornings it stood turgid and solid, but rarely after.

"A minute, perhaps two, mercenary." She dropped her hands to her hips, and glared at him. He met her gaze with silent intensity, now deeply curious as to what this curse would entail.